Danila Vanilla

Danila Polyakov is the single-most gorgeous man in the entire world.

Sacred Cow

I may or may not be delusional, but I've been thinking lately: in a perfect world -- or mine at least -- everything would be exactly as it is.

Blogspot, to me, is inexplicably anti-LJ (that's LiveJournal for all you Internet plebeians). Everything about the Blogspot blogosphere (gag) is critically base. On purpose. Blogspot stands to be the hub of the individual rather than a place for community. Blogspot is like a summer home or cabin timeshare you can use whenever the need should present itself because it's an escape where any reputation you've built for yourself -- willfully or otherwise -- can be eluded. No one reads this! God. I just fucking watched "Juno", and I constantly catch myself wanting to say, "honest to Blog" to convey the utmost honesty I possibly can.

Anyway. I know nobody and some people will read and/or view this. It just needed an update.

Having a crush is always the most uncomfortable state of being. All that bullshit of, "It's not real unless there are butterflies" is such... well, bullshit. Every time I feel myself crushing, I pray that my skin constricts so the essence of my being can pour out of every orifice of my physical body. I just don't feel like myself when I like somebody so I've been looking into spiritual paths of enlightenment that require celibacy.

I downloaded the leak of Madonna's Hard Candy and I need to shampoo my hair in the morning.

I've started a project to fold 999 paper cranes. Origami paper is so expensive it should be illegal. Expensive paper that isn't resume paper makes me feel bougie. Resume paper makes me feel bougie too because I've never had a job. My life is sickeningly upper-crust. Admitting as much is all too embarrassing.

Old Love

His rockcandy ribcage,
And collarbones an alien terrain.
Hips that could splinter diamonds --
Cosmically estranged.

His eyes: sunken meteorites.
Neck strangled in lovebites
My skin. And his skin:
Rock with intoxicating blight.

April showers

Pizza and Michel Gondry with Peter and Julie.
A lazy Sunday evening well spent.

Bad: nature versus nurture

If I could shuck my jack of all trades attitude and no longer be stifled from ever truly being great at something, I would be a vindictive asshole. I would be more than just good at it. My resentments would not stale. They would rot and congeal in the pit of my stomach like loaded ammunition with my vocal chords as the trigger.

I hate when people self diagnose, yet I can't help but attribute my disregard for other peoples' feelings as some kind of sadistic personality disorder instead of acknowledging the reality that I might just be an asshole. I don't think I am an asshole at the core of my being, but I wonder if maybe some people are just born not good or if bad people are made because I am starting to get the impression that I am just a really shitty person.

I need to watch The Bad Seed.

No. I need to stop procrastinating on homework.

"Because you're ugly."

Dubai aka Atlantis v2.0

It's settled! I'm moving to the future as soon as I can possibly gather the funds to book my flight. Dubai reminds me of the dramatic cityscapes of the cyberpunk genre: supercities graphically rendered with shoddy 1980's architecture software. Then again, until it is fully realized, that's exactly what it will continue to be. I predict that Dubai will be the backdrop of neo-cyberpunk works both literary and cinematic. It's the perfect dystopian wonderland. Lets just cross our fingers and hope this city isn't sunk into the Arabian Sea by its builders' hubris.

Gregory Colbert

Ashes and Snow

"The photographic artworks of Gregory Colbert explore the poetic sensibilities of animals in their natural habitat as they interact with human beings. No longer shown as merely a member of the family of man, humans are seen as a member of the family of animals."

Compartmentalization

This past Saturday, I decided to buy the large, squared Moleskine journal -- 240 luxurious acid-free 13 x 21cm pages of row after row and column after column of boxes. While it's beautiful, I'm not sure how many paper journals I've owned. A lot. I've lost count. That is to say: I've never been able to spill enough of my head to fill a single journal past the fourth or fifth page without suffering severe discomfort. I'm prone to self editing just in case my secrets should fall under the inspection of an older, wiser version of myself, who would deem his past pitiful or unremarkable.

"Goddamn fool. Egoist. Moron."

I bought this journal because I like grids. I like to box my ideas. Everything requires a label. Isn't that the fundamental purpose of language? I wish I could box people, but I'm a mostly a pacifist. Put me in a Rubik's Cube.

---

Here. Enjoy these songs dead links. I'll re-upload later.

Artist: The Mae Shi
Album: Terrorbird
Song: Hieronymus Bosch Is A Dead Man

Artist: Poe
Album: Haunted
Song: Spanish Doll

Artist: Cat Power
Album: The Greatest
Song: Hate

A poem by a boy named James

I was at camp
With strangers
In a room full of pianos
Oskar Eustis was teaching us how to play piano
By instinct
Without learning the notes

I was pretty good at it

Then I had a class called
Imagining Water
And I floated in the air for awhile

I was pretty good at that too

Then you showed up
With your French backpack
And your gold hair
And the hills around us blushed so green

I had not noticed them before

You let me lift your shirt a little
And kiss your stomach
And it was warm and soft like perfect bread
And it made me hungry

And even in the dream
I felt that quiet buzz of rightness
That happens when you're around

Atomic circle jerk

"U.S. to shoot down damaged spy satellite" is the caption attached to this picture. The headline of the article, which is cycling through Yahoo's Features section on the front page reads, "Navy missile smashes dying spy satellite". The article is tingling my paranoid conspiracy theorist senses. I didn't even know I possessed conspiracy theorist senses let alone paranoid ones. Really, though, now that they've awakened, they're going haywire. The other articles in rotation serve to dampen the gravity of the story. Kobe vs. Shaq: Who won?, Spielberg's diss turns into Chinese outcry, and $1 billion house for richest man in India. Do I even wanna know how many diamond encrusted bidets there are in a 1 billion dollar home? A lot I bet. But probably not as many as Oprah has.

There's also a link attached as a footer to the story: "Find how spy satellites work". What?

I'm imagining the Tom, Dick, and Harry's of the FBI phoning TV execs and media bigwigs to lighten the skew of the story. I figure that with tonight's lunar eclipse, necks around the Northern Hemisphere are going to be craning skyward and that's a bit worrisome to them. They probably didn't want to obligate themselves to fielding questions from the media after some random caught a glimpse of the debris burning through the atmosphere. So instead, they're going to the source and spinning the story themselves so we can all swoon and guffaw, "Oh! Big Brother, You're so strong! Oh! Big Brother, you're so big! Big Brother, you're our hero!"

But let's assume momentarily that this is all true and that in March twenty-five hundred pounds of debris would have gloriously come hurtling through the atmosphere completely intact like they're saying. Oh, by the way, aside from a satellite the size of a school bus, there was a smaller, toxic fuel tank they weren't sure they could hit. The attempt alone cost estimates of up to $60 million and the fuel tank would have survived reentry. I'm still unsure of whether or not they hit the fuel tank. They're unsure, too, so at least we're on the same page, right?

As I skim CNN.com, there's speculation that the United States military is just flexing its muscle because China destroyed one of its aging weather satellites last year. I say we just get all the world superpowers (Oh, wait. By our definition there's only one) to flex their muscles together for one big, mind blowing atomic circle jerk.

First to cum gets to give the losers a massive atomic facial.

da Vinci

The left side of my brain always trips up the right. I want to teach myself to mirror-write. Here's what I figure: mirror-writing will help bridge the hemispheres of my brain and make bicameral thought processes easier.

If I can dissolve hemispheric dominance so that both halves work together fluidly an equally, I am effectively slowing time to a standstill because I'll be processing information more quickly -- right? There will be more hours in the day for me to enjoy! I'll be an Alaskan summer! What are the chances I'll develop dyslexia along the way? That's sorta like a standstill.

Asexual like Lovecraft

The way I live can be measured by intangible quantities that act to balance each other. For example, outwardly I convey myself as heteronormative in proportion to how gay I am feeling at any given moment. This kind of balancing act has made me good at a lot of things, but also serves to stifle my ability to excel at anything. I always make sure not to sway my hips too much. And I always make sure not to stare too long. And I always always always make sure to wipe my nose with my thumb because men wipe their noses with their thumbs.

Sometimes I wonder if I might actually be straight, and really just terrified of girls. I spend a lot of time marveling at how graceful and beautiful the female body is with its limbs. The girls I think are pretty are the girls who girls think are pretty. Models. Aliens. My attraction to women is a cold, calculated and scientific. High foreheads, wide-set eyes, and clear skin.

Love is in the air

Hold your breath unless you want to be quarantined for contamination.
VD is almost here.